From Ahmedabad: A Referee's Eye on Cricket's Decision Machinery

In cricket's world right now, the fiercest debate is not about the decision made on the field, but about the one made in the room off it. An official sitting with a hand on the third umpire's shoulder, a captain waiting for the match referee's report, and the layers of paperwork spread across an auction table — that is cricket's real stadium, where the game's laws are written. For the past few years I have been reading this room with the same seriousness I learned in football's referee corridors: a decision does not end when the whistle blows; it stays alive long after the crowd has left the stadium. In today's cricket, DRS, soft signals, umpire's call and match-referee hearings — these four things together decide whether a ruling will stand. And frankly, none of them is complete on its own. In the cricket decision debates of recent days, one thing has been clear — we like to split decisions into two halves: right and wrong. But cricket's decision machinery is far more layered. It rests on a three-tier structure: first, the on-field umpire who decides instantly from his eyes and experience; second, the television umpire who looks through replays and technology; and third, the match referee who holds a code-of-conduct hearing after the event. Their roles are different, their responsibilities are different, and most importantly — their accountability is different. When a decision is disputed, we must first determine at which tier the dispute sits, because each tier has a different remedy. I remember 2026, when VAR was introduced at the football World Cup for the first time, and that same year I wrote a column titled 'The decisions that will still be argued about ten years from now.' The biggest lesson of that column was that technology does not make decisions faster — it only changes how evidence is gathered. The same has happened with cricket's DRS. After DRS arrived, the umpire's decision did not disappear — it became 'umpire's call' and grew even stronger. And that is the greatest irony here. When ball-tracking shows the ball was clipping half the stump and the umpire did not give it out, DRS upholds the umpire's decision. The logic is straightforward: if a decision has enough margin that even technology cannot say clearly, then the on-field umpire's eye should be treated as final. But for the spectator, this logic is not easy. For him, the ball was on the stumps — that is enough. This is where the real debate begins, and it is not just about the umpire but about the entire process. Disputes over match-referee hearings usually produce two kinds of complaints. First, the proportionality of punishment — one player gets a one-match ban, another only a fine, another just a warning. Second, the basis of the decision — did both sides get an equal hearing, were the video evidence shown to everyone, were the reasons spelled out in the written ruling. In my experience, cricket should debate the reasons for a sanction more than the sanction itself, because when the reason is clear, accepting the sanction becomes easier. This is what I learned in football: a fair ruling is only half the job; the other half is helping people live with it. Cricket's biggest structural challenge right now is the board's multi-national role. BCCI is at once regulator, employer, broadcaster's partner, and operator of franchise cricket. When one institution plays so many roles, conflicts of interest are natural. In the IPL and WPL era this has become more visible — who gets auction information, how agent networks operate, what the terms are between franchises and the board, and who audits all of it. This is not just a question of transparency; it is a question of the trust on which all professional cricket stands. The lesson of the 2026 match-fixing scandal was this: who owns the game's information and who profits from it — that question remains just as relevant today, only its form has changed. Now let us come to selection and bench strength, because here too we make the same mistake we make with decisions — we form opinions by looking at results. That India's second XI is the hardest team in world sport to make sounds good, but it does not mean every change is right. Selection must be weighed on four scales: domestic record, conditions, workload and opportunity cost. When a player keeps scoring in domestic cricket and does not get a chance, the question is not just about the player but about the selector's process. And when a player keeps getting chances and does not perform, the question should also be asked of the selector who picked him. I believe in being a risk-carrying analyst — clearly naming who should be dropped and which selector should answer for it, with the receipts attached. Still, there is one side of this debate we often overlook — emotion. When a decision goes against a team, it is not just about a rule; it is about years of hard work, the most important chance of a career, and the hopes of millions of hearts. It is easy to place that emotion against the rule, but it is necessary to understand it. In cricket we have often seen that when an umpire makes a mistake, criticism is directed at his competence, whereas the real question should be about the process — did he have better technology, did he get the right training, was his decision reviewed. A dignity-first approach says criticism should be aimed at process and power, not at humiliating individuals. The biggest thing I have learned about cricket decisions in recent years is this: we must ask the question first, then look at the evidence, and finally give the verdict — and always with our name attached, so the reader knows whose opinion it is. When we write about a disputed decision, our responsibility is not to offer the fastest opinion but to weave the whole sequence so the reader can reach the conclusion himself. That is the method I learned in football's referee room — replay first, verdict last. Looking ahead, three improvements seem necessary to cricket's decision machinery. First, every major decision should be published with its reasoning, whether it is an umpire's or a match referee's. Second, there should be consistency in DRS usage — different series should not run on different standards. Third, there should be an independent body to review selection and administrative decisions, one that looks only at process, not results. Until the decision and its reasoning arrive together, the debate will not end. And perhaps that is cricket's greatest strength — it does not let the debate die, because behind every debate is a spectator who will come back the next day, and that spectator is, in the end, the game's true owner.